Nathan snorts. “Jesse James was as virtuous as Satan on a Sunday. ‘Better’ as in more cunning.”
Madam Delilah appears once again. “He will see Miss Kuan only.”
“But the lady requires an escort.”
“If she is bold enough to seek out Billy Riggs, she can handle herself.”
“I will be fine,” I pipe up, somewhat relieved at the notion of not having to expose my affairs to Nathan.
He angles himself so the woman cannot see his face, which is clouded with concern. “Miss Kuan—” he says between his teeth.
“Jo, please.”
“Jo. The wordimbeciliccomes to mind.”
“As does the wordvexatious. Madam, I am ready.”
He shoots me a black look as I enter the house. Before he can follow, she locks the door behind her.
The parlor extends at least twenty paces, with a bar at the end. Dim lamps make it hard to distinguish faces, but it is clear from the slouched postures and raucous laughter that the occupants are not here to play whist.
Madam Delilah leads me down a dark corridor. Maids, mostly colored, in uniforms more revealing than the ones used by the Paynes’ staff, deliver trays of food and drink. Their faces are closed, as if used to minding their own business. Velvet wallpaper smooths the walls between doors, tight as a lady’s bodice. A laughing woman pulls a man into a room. No doubt, much of Billy’s information is collected in these very halls.
The madam stops in front of a door marked with the number 9. She knocks. “Jo Kuan to see you.”
The door opens, and I come face-to-face with a man bearingthe dead expression of an undertaker. He’s even dressed for death—a black frock coat with gray-and-black-striped trousers.
“Knucks, let her in.”
The man steps back, and the dirty pennies of Billy Riggs’s eyes appraise me. Billy is not dressed for a funeral, or a wedding, for that matter. He is not dressed at all.
Twenty-Five
Dear Miss Sweetie,
My ten-year-old boy takes after his father, a lazy back-talkin’ lout. God rest his black soul. How can I raise him to be a good man?
Worried Mama
Dear Mama,
Make him sweep the porches of the elderly. Caring for others is a gift we give ourselves. Then the only thing left is to teach him how to pick up his own socks.
Best regards,
Miss Sweetie
—
Billy Riggs is bathing. The pale mountaintops of his scarred knees peek out above gray suds. His auburn hair frames his face in wet noodles. “Well. I guess the gilding on my door was too hard to resist.” He smirks, feeding my saucy comment back to me. His gaze cuts to a single chair positioned beside the tub. “Please, sit.”
My eyes crawl around the curiosities lining the walls—astuffed owl missing its eyes, bottles in different sizes, and several dolls, at least their heads. An expensive-looking vase painted with a grinning Buddha adorns a side table.
Something inside me flares. There is little doubt in my mind that exposing himself this way and in this bizarre setting is meant to intimidate me. I flex my back. If I can handle the two-headed she-devil Caroline Payne, I can handle this bathing freak show. The way out is forward.
I summon Miss Sweetie’s most irritated voice. “I prefer to stand.” A quick exit might become necessary.
The undertaker henchman positions himself before the door, his hands held in front of him. His left hand sports a tattoo of a horseshoe. At Mrs. English’s, women often requested horseshoes on their hats as symbols of luck. He must be superstitious. On his business hand, a metal band around the knuckles gleams in the light of a pulley lamp. No wonder he is called Knucks. Perhaps he hopes the horseshoe on the left hand will restore some of the bad fortune that might follow the harm done with his right.
